I curled up in the corner I had deemed the warmest in my cell, with nothing more than a thin slice of fabric around my waist and breasts. Some of the more obedient girls got cells with comforters and pretty collars, but I was nothing but an annoyance to the trainers here.
I was twenty now, a "Sellable."
They had been running this operation for years, much longer than I'd been here. The men kidnapped girls of their picking, trained them to be perfect slaves, and put them on the market as 'certified' slaves, who they sold to men they deemed appropriate to take us and use us as they saw fit.
The man who ran this hellhole was a sadist and delighted nothing more in breaking the stubbornest of the girls and selling them to men he found appropriate. He had no shortage of customers: every man buying wanted one of us, and every man not buying wished he was.
My chapped lips grew into a small smile. The man who ran this had never broken me, though. My slave name was Cataegis, which meant storm or gale or something of the like in Latin. I didn't remember the name I had before this, but I had rather liked the name they gave me.
It meant I was still free in all the places in my mind it truly mattered. And somehow, it had raised my price value to be worth almost as much as the pretty perfects who sat on the pillows on the farthest end of our cell corridor like dogs. The man called it 'Ferocity Value.' On my price tag, hanging off my cell door, it proclaimed I 'had all the skills to be a perfect submissive, but only submitted to the fiercest of men.' I had snorted and tore it off, then ate it.
The next day, I had been chained to the corner of my cell, got my clothes taken away, and had a new price tag hung up on the cell. I couldn't read what it said this time, though.
I had been so lost in my thoughts that, when I heard the seller bell go off from the door at the far side of the cell block, I jumped. Then, I shook myself and curled back into the corner.
We were supposed to be alert and vigilant at this time, but I was at the top of the ferocity value and very few wanted to come even near the end of the row, much less to the very last cell. The seller bell rang twice more, indicating two more prospective men had entered. This time, I did haul myself up and walked across the cell to peek through the bars, straining to see the corridor. There were about thirty girls in this cell block, and thirty in another. We were the top fifty percent and cost more, for whatever reason we had been deemed expensive. I could see the sparkling clean cells at the end of the hall and the three men who moved back and forth across the hallway, inspecting the women like we were nothing but property.
They were too far away for me to see them clearly, but they were all tall, well-muscled, and each had the walk of a person comfortably situated in life. Their voices drift down the hallway. One man pauses halfway down and inspects a girl in a cell closer. I go back to my corner. They wouldn't come this far down. Men like this wanted pretty slaves who sat on cushions and sucked cock eagerly, said their pleases and thank yous, and took every punishment to heart.
Another ten minutes passed, but no slave bell rung to indicate a choice had been made. I sighed through my nose and rested my forehead on my knees. The pale lines on my back ached a little as I did so and my ribs pressed into the skin on my back. Some men took so long to decide which one they wanted better. "Would they rather have the one who sits pretty or the one who stands pretty," I muttered to myself and smirked. Ridiculous, the lot of them.
I dozed and then jolted awake a few minutes later as a bell rings. Every slave had a distinctive sold sound. Based on the light, pleasant tone, girl number six had been chosen. A redhead, I remember. Ashley. Not as expensive as number one, of course, but she'd please whoever had chosen her well. Annoyed that I had been awoken, I rest my head back on my knees and have barely closed my eyes when I hear footsteps coming this way.
I sigh. Of course, the men wanted to check out the curiosity in the coldest darkest cell in the block. But it was only one set. I shook my light brown hair in front of my face and peeked through the curtain to look at the cell door. With any hope, he wouldn't know I was watching him, evaluating him. He came into view and my heart gave a little skip against my will.
I squashed that instinctive reflex at seeing someone attractive and continued to stare at him. He was black-haired and blue-eyed, taller than the others perhaps, dressed in a simple grey t-shirt that complimented his eyes, and jeans that looked like he'd never put them to good use. His muscles were clearly defined even under his clothes. He seemed calm, mild-mannered, a little bored compared to some of the over-excited men that came to buy.
He had his hands shoved into his pocket, an expensive watch glinting at his wrist. He walked to my price tag, completely ignoring me. It irked me a little. Most of the men gawked at me, not even wanting to look at the tag. I'd rather be stared at than evaluated like an object. He didn't speak to me simply summoned the man who ran this place, the Grandmaster, with a casual wave of his hand. He was the kind of man used to be obeyed.
I smirked behind my curtain of hair. He'd have a hard time with me, if that was the case.
"Aren't ferocious girls usually less expensive?" he asked. I ground my teeth. I worth double whatever was on that tag, for just resisting the brainwashing, if not because I was a human and not an object. The Grandmaster, the sadist, was a pale-haired man with a neat-cut goatee and a dangerous way of walking.
"Usually," the man said, also ignoring me. "But she's so resistant she's more expensive."
"So you're trying to charge double the price of the lower thirty to make up for your failure to train her properly?" the reprimanding tone was enough to make the Grandmaster flush a dark red. He stuttered and the buyer put a hand up and finally looked at me. "She's scarred too, and underfed. Her hair looks like it hasn't been washed in weeks. Half of her price is going to go just to making her look presentable again."
The Grandmaster stammered some sort of excuse and the buyer turned cold blue eyes on him. Whatever words the seller had died in his throat. The man turned his eyes back to me. "Half the price."
"I can't..." the Grandmaster stammered. I had never seen him so unsettled. He tapped a foot. "She begged once. She has the potential to be a submissive for a strong enough man." The way he said it was almost accusingly. "That's why she's priced so high. The potential."
"I could grab any woman off the street and she'd have the same potential," he growled. "That's not what I'm paying for." And it seemed the man who had tortured me for years had run out of excuses.
"Well, we have some excellent options farther up, if you'd like to look at them," he waved toward the other girls and the man shook his head.
"Half price and I'll buy her," he said easily, turning toward the Grandmaster. I couldn't believe my ears. My head slowly raised, my hair falling away from my face. He didn't even look and I scowled. I was worth that entire dollar amount. I was pretty under my poorly-taken-care-of body, and who was he to tell me I wasn't! The Grandmaster contemplated the price tag and then me.
